Saturday, 31 December 2016

If you have been following this blog for more than a year, you will know I have problems with the bit between Christmas and New Year. I slump into a malaise, a fit of ennui that lasts until I can start planting seeds in February. It is dark, it is cold and it is pointless and filled with resolutions that I inevitably break and are painful in the meantime. Ugh. No wonder we need a New Year bash to cheer us up or else we'd just be circling the drain until Spring. Wowser.

We always complain that greeting card manufacturers seem to come up with new excuses for us to buy cards for each other but some of the past reasons seem to have fallen out of favour. Is there any among us who still sends New Year Cards? While I am still struggling to get thank you cards written, I would not be overjoyed at yet another set of cards to write at this time of year. However, some of these Victorian examples might be enough to convince me otherwise...

Nothing says New Year like an angel bringing your fat baby a canary. Bearing in mind that the tree behind them is covered in candles, I think that scenario will end in trouble and the unmistakable smell of burnt feathers.

Well, this jolly scene is the new year dancing on the old. Well, how smashing and sweet, and filled with good fortune and optimism or something. In no way does it resemble this:

The Nightmare (1781) John Fuseli

And while we're at it this -

doesn't put me in mind of this at all...

Princes in the Tower (1862) Augusta Freeman

Righty-o then, moving on.

The moon is a regular inclusion on New Year cards, probably because the actual New Year business happens in the middle of the night and so you get to celebrate in the moonlight with a halberd and horn. A few years ago our neighbours had a fancy dress New Years party which ended in a fist-fight between Elvis and a caveman over Marilyn Monroe. That's what I call a party...

In quite a few, the moon-man is being plied with alcohol by little angel-fairy things. Alcohol does seem to play a reasonable size in proceedings, hence fist-fights I suppose. As the nights draw in, alcohol does tend to come into its own, possibly to alleviate the gloom, cold and general pointlessness of existence. Cider for Mrs Walker!

Of course, with drinking comes vomiting, if done to excess. How splendid it would be if coins came out! Okay, well maybe not splendid but rather handy at this time of year when I don't know about you, but I'm rather broke after Christmas. Maybe I should hang around outside with a sack tonight in case the moon starts projectile vomiting cash. There's a pretty thought.

I blame the gnomes. There is a 'drunken gnome' motif to many of the cards, seen here above being discovered by a self-righteous pig. If they are not encouraging the moon to drink so much it vomits, then they are getting smashed themselves. Gnomes, you have a problem, go home.

No, not a clue. This is what happens when you drink - a card with a potato in leather boots seems perfectly acceptable. This is how friendships end. The Chitted Potato of New Year may arrive at your house tonight. Don't say I didn't warn you.

It's not only weird vegetables we have to worry about tonight, but also giant insects. This New Year lark is a nightmare. Won't someone please think of the children?

The best thing that can happen to children in 2017 is to be sprayed by a vengeful circus elephant. I'm not sure that's a narrative I wish to endorse, however if that bunch of velvet-clad Little Lord Fauntleroys were near me, I might be tempted to unleash the nose-cannon too. Especially the one in the sailor suit. Really, Social Services should be involved in some instances.

Case in point is a card that says 'I hope 1890 brings you child-flavoured soup'. I see that the child represents 1889 and so is going into the soup because it's delicious, or something. I thought the old year was an old man and the new year is the child?

Yes, like this, although poor Old Year looks like he is being assaulted by the cute New Year. Actually, he's Father Time and he is being 'taken by the forelock', whatever that means. It sounds like that motivational speech, where you are meant to take things 'by the horns', that sort of thing. Go out and seize old men by their hair, it's what the Victorians want you to do.

Actually, don't do that, just shake them by the hand, that's more respectful and less likely to end in a lawsuit or arrest. I have a questions about allowing children that young to be socialising at that time of night, even metaphorical ones. That can't end well.

See? All that carousing and staying up to all hours, ends up with this sort of malarky. This rather dubious card shows a young girl fighting off an over eager suitor. For heavens sake. I know you could get married at 12 years old in Victorian times but it wasn't recommended. 'If you want to kiss something, kiss the door!' exclaimed little Emily as she slammed it in his face.

Wise Grandma Cat says 'Happy New Year'. Or rather, she says 'Meow, meow, I'm going to get you back for dressing me up like this. And you'll only find out when you put your shoe on.'

Disembodied Dog Head also wishes you a happy new year, although I'm not sure why we can't have the rest of the dog too. Probably because it wouldn't be disturbing to have a normal dog. Maybe we are missing a trick not having New Year Cards as they are the perfect opportunity to be as surreal and weird and freaky. I mean, look at this horror...

Why is the lute-playing pierrot doing yoga in the snow? Why is the snowman watching him? With a broom? How does any of this pertain to New Year?

This one is almost normal. A goldfinch herald in the New Year with the promise of blossom and all good things, but then the words read 'O satisfy us early with thy Mercy'. Wait, what? What do we need mercy for and why does it need to be rushed in at dawn? What exactly are we all getting up to tonight? Heavens to Betsy, I've had some rare old times but never have I had to ask for God's forgiveness at the end of it all. Blimey.

So I'll end with possibly my 'favourite'. Here is a little known fact about me that possibly I shouldn't be sharing - since I was a child my nightmares have regularly featured people screaming but no sound comes out. Now, I'm sure that is psychologically significant but if I got to pick a New Year card that freaked me out the most, I would pick this one where everyone at the party has started screaming together while making a toast. I am left to wonder what they have seen that causes they all to scream - is it the zombie apocalypse? Have they all noticed the little girl standing with her back to them in the corner, holding the dripping knife? Lovely. Have a good one.

Okay, look whatever you are up to, have a lovely, safe time and I think I might have found the perfect card for you all. I wish you all prosperity through the coming year, with very little vomiting, no matter how much the gnomes make you drink.

Saturday, 24 December 2016

I had only a faint sketch of my late sister, Sophia by her
husband, the artist Philip Archer. His art, though
extremely accomplished, had no charm for me, much like the man himself. That one
sketch though was pressed upon me after her funeral. He had wrapped it in black
tissue, a farewell present as the frost and dirt still clung to my boots. He expected never to see me again and so I
was to be dismissed with this half-work of her, dressed as an angel, her arms
outstretched in a darkened room. He kept the oil, finished but never shown. I
will say that in his defense, he never showed that last painting nor sold it.
It hung on his landing, a curtain carelessly pulled back next to it so that it was
partly obscured. My angel-sister was all but forgotten by Philip Archer until the
third Sunday in December. That’s when I received a note. It was brief, heavy-inked
letters spelling out two words.

SHE MOVED.

I did not relish the trip to London, so comfortable
had I become in my rooms in Oxford. I
had my work, my books, my little cat. His letter had disturbed me, and had been swiftly followed by a note by
a ‘Dr Carstairs’, a friend of Philip’s, which did nothing to ease my mind.

‘Miss Davis,’
it began, ‘Forgive the imposition upon
your time by one who is not known to you but I believe you will have received a
letter from my friend, Philip Archer. I do not need
to tell you what a shock your poor sister’s death was to him and how he has
grieved deeply for her, but of late that grief has turned to something less
healthy.

He has a
painting of your sister, a beautiful work, but for some reason Philip has
developed the notion that Sophia, the image of Sophia, moves. Why, I cannot fathom. They have a foolish maid who may have started
this nonsense, but ever since he has been obsessed to the point of lunacy. Your
presence is greatly desired by my friend who feels that you may be able to
somehow contact your sister. To the contrary, I feel that your presence might
settle him back into sanity, to hear another tell him this is all fantasy,
that his grief has overwhelmed him, that your sister, although greatly missed
by all who knew her, is gone.’

I sent a cursory note in response and packed a
meager bag, not wishing to stay for more than a couple of days under Philip
Archer’s roof. Poor Sophia. I missed her every single day and the grief I felt
was indeed overwhelming at times.What
that man felt was not grief.It was
guilt.

I arrived at 15 Wisteria Grove, Chelsea, on foot, not wishing
for, nor affording, the expense of a carriage from the station. The walk did not put me in a better mood, as the
approach to the house was too heavily reminiscent of that day almost a year
before when I had rushed to my sister’s side, but found all her beautiful life extinguished. A young maid let me in to the hall and I immediately
averted my eyes from the staircase.

‘You came.’

Philip Archer was motionless in a gloomy doorway and so I
did not see him to begin with. When he moved towards me I was
frankly amazed at the damage a year could do. He was wrapped in a smoking jacket
that had seen better days and his hair and beard were unkempt. I was too
surprised at his appearance to avoid his embrace, so my cheek was grazed by his
lips and the smell of brandy assaulted my senses.
I stepped back in disgust and for a moment he looked aware of how far he
had slipped. He brushed a hand over
himself to smooth the inconsequential creases and fiddle with cuffs.

‘As you see,’ I finally replied and he nodded
before beckoning me to follow, striding purposefully towards the stairs. The maid bobbed at my side, her fingers taking
my bag from me.

‘Glad you are here, M’am,’ she whispered, and I
nodded.

‘Where are you Olivia?’ the artist called, sounding
angry suddenly, his voice travelling down the stairs to the little maid and
me. She jumped and scurried away, up the
stairs. I followed. There on the landing he was waiting in front
of the painting. His breathing had
become rapid and he turned to the picture, closely studying it before turning
back to me as I approached.

‘Mr Archer? Philip?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice
gentle.

‘See now, here, look here. Closer!’ he barked at me
as I moved to view the painting, and tried to grab my arm but I easily shook
him off and he seemed to remember himself.

‘Yes, yes, the work. It is almost too painful to
see it because you caught her likeness so well.’

For a moment, the artist fluffed a little with
pride, and turned to view his work like he used to, the conceit of talent
angling him. Then he saw Sophia again, her arms wide and the pretense slipped,
like my poor sister’s feet on the stairs.

‘But do you see?
She has moved.’

I looked at the painting, then back at him in confusion.

‘I see nothing out of the ordinary, why do you
imagine the painting moves?’

‘It was Bessie saw her first. Bessie!’

The small maid was summoned and she appeared at her
master’s side swiftly.

‘Sir?’ Her voice was soft and I remembered her
quiet sobs when I had arrived a year ago.

Bessie paused, her lips forming words but none
arriving. Her eyes flicked to the side
repeatedly and she closed her mouth, her chin decisively dipped as if her story
was ordering itself for the consumption of others. Philip gave a roar of
impatience, but was drowned out by the bell at the front door clanging. Torn
between following her master’s instruction and the call of duty, Bessie hurried
out her story.

‘I was dusting, Miss, and said that I was sure the
mistress looked different, that was all.’

Philip dismissed her unpleasantly, his hand pushing
her away so that she wobbled at the top of the stairs. I moved forward sharply and caught her
forearm. She and I exchanged a look of
solidarity.

‘Answer the door, Bessie,’ I instructed softly,
releasing her arm and she nodded, grimly.

‘I’m glad you’ve come, Miss,’ she repeated.

The visitor was Dr Carstairs, or Albert as I was
instructed to call him. A jovial man
with red whiskers and a ready smile, he was Philip’s physician and had grown to
be his friend, mainly due, he confided, to a lack of others. I think this last
piece of information was meant to make me feel an appropriate sisterly warmth towards the
artist.

‘How long have you attended my brother?’ I asked as
we sipped tea in front of the parlour fire.
Albert cast a look over at the snoring form of Philip who had fallen
asleep in the far chair.

‘Since this wretched business began,’ he murmured,
then gestured at the sleeping man. ‘It is good to see him sleep. That's your influence.' I gustured to me with a smile of relief. 'That has been half the battle I fear, his
insomnia. That fuels the fire of his
imagination, and such idle words of a parlour maid can start wildfires in the
minds of men.’ He flapped his hand in dismissal, ‘No, no, I don’t blame poor
Bessie for all this, she can’t have known what she was starting. I’m sure she meant nothing by it.’ He cast down
his eyes, then added, ‘I was also the doctor who attended your sister a year
ago. It is when I met Philip, and why he called on me again.’

I nodded, letting the subject of my sister rest for
the moment.

‘And he claims the painting moves? That it starts in
one room and ends up in another?’ I asked and he gave a short laugh.

‘No, if only that were the case, that would be
easily explained. He could move it in his sleep or the maid could be up to
mischief. No,’ he repeated, the smile fading,
‘no, he claims, well-‘ He paused, suddenly looking self-conscious, ‘my
apologies, but he claims your sister moves.’

‘What? How
do you mean?’ I exclaimed and he gave a pained look.

‘You see, that is the madness of it. Philip claims that your sister, the figure of
the angel, she moves within the picture.’ He raised his hand as I began to
object. ‘I do not for a moment think this is so, obviously, and I have examined
the painting and it looks just the same each day.’

‘Well, of course it does!’ I exclaimed and he
nodded.

‘Indeed, but still, he is adamant and cannot be
dissuaded. It began as a fancy but lately, lately, it has grown to a mania. I
felt you might be able to reassure him, to bring him back to himself. The anniversary, you see…’

‘Yes, I see.’ I spoke sharply for which I was
sorry. ‘I shall do what I can,’ I added, my tone softening, and the doctor
nodded, a tentative smile on his lips.

‘I am grateful, he thinks highly of you.’ I doubted
that. I doubted he thought of me at all. ‘I met your sister once, before, well,
when she lived. Were you too on the
stage?’

I relaxed a little in the chair as the man leaned
forward with interest.

‘No, my sister was the actress, as was our mother,
which was how she met our father.’

‘Of course, I saw your father in Macbeth at the Lyceum, he was a powerful
actor.’ There was something of the enthused school-boy about Dr Carstairs as he
spoke. I nodded indulgently.

‘Some consider it his finest performance. It was
one of his last. The influenza took him
and our mother the year after.’ My voice trailed off and again our guest looked
embarrassed.

‘My condolences, a great loss,’ he hurried out. I
felt guilty for my folio of tragedies and attempted to alleviate his
discomfort.

‘I had no talent for the boards, I could not
remember the lines. My father set me to work with Edwin Gordon on sets. That man could
make you think a city lay stretched before your eyes, or the inner sanctums of
a baronial castle. I was fortunate to see the theatre from such an angle.’ I
ended with a smile and he looked relieved and genuinely interested. There was a
moment of silence as I sipped my tea and he looked over at his friend. When he
looked back at me, he gave a quiet chuckle of relief and self-congratulation.

‘I am glad you have come Miss Davis,’ he murmured,
‘I am so glad.’

The next morning, three days before the anniversary
of Sophia’s death, I awoke to the sound of ranting from outside my room.
Hurrying into my dressing gown, I did not stop to consider my appearance before
opening my bedroom door. In the narrow passage leading to the stairs, my
brother-in-law was electric with excitement. I knew where he would be even
before I saw him. Sheltering on the
stairs below, her face creased with concern, was Bessie, who did not dare to
come any closer.

‘Philip?’ I called softly and he turned, looking
delighted.

‘See now! See, come closer! See!’

He ran to my side and dragged me to the painting of
poor Sophia.

‘What is it I am meant to be seeing?’ I asked, and his fingers suddenly pressed the back of my head closer to the image. I felt strands of hair pluck from my scalp
under his grip.

‘She has moved, it is unmistakable!’ Look!’

‘Please release my head from your grasp, brother,’
I whispered coldly, all pity gone in the sting on my scalp. His hand retracted
with a jerk and suddenly was on my shoulder, as if to steady me. I stood back, brushing his touch away.

‘I see nothing different.’

My answer was partly fuelled by the soreness of
pulled hair, but his face was suddenly doubtful and he turned again to the
picture.

‘But her arms, look at her arms.’

‘Philip, please, let us go down stairs, let us eat
breakfast. It is too early for this.’ I raised my hands in defence as he moved sharply
towards me.

‘Olivia, please, please say you can see it.’ His
voice was plaintive, pitiful.

I bent forward, and made a show of studying the
painting.

‘My sister was so beautiful, you captured her
likeness exactly,’ I said softly, raising my face to look at him. He frowned, and I continued. ‘I find it hard
to look at this painting. Please understand…’

To his credit he looked ashamed and reached out a
conciliatory hand which I flinched from but then allowed him to place on my
arm.

‘Dearest sister, I quite understand. At least now I
know I am not going mad. She has moved!’

With that he moved past me and down the stairs, as
Bessie skittled away in front of him. After he had vanished below me I realised
I had been gripping the banister so tightly behind me, my fingers had cramped.

Two days before the anniversary of Sophia’s death,
and I was once more awoken by the sound of Philip’s voice. This time it was near, very near, invading my
dreams and dragging me into consciousness.

‘Look now, Olivia, now, look!’

I was plucked from my bed by strong, manic hands
and, in my nightdress, I was hustled to the top of the stairs. I gurgled complaint that turned fearful as my
hand slipped on the banister, but he hauled me to the painting and waited for
my comment like an excited child. His hand was hot and tight on my arm.

‘You cannot behave like this, Philip, it is
madness!’

I tried to pull away and he looked crestfallen but
still maintained a grip upon me.

‘Please, Olivia, the painting.’ He pointed to the
angel with a shaking finger. ‘Tell me you see no difference.’

‘You have pulled me from my bed, dragged me, undressed, to a painting of my poor
sister. How would she feel seeing you
this way? Seeing you treat me so?’

We were too near the top of the stairs. With my
free arm I was holding the banister but if he fell into me we would both follow
Sophia to the bitter end. There was a pause and his fingers slackened on my
upper arm, then released. He brushed past me and down the stairs, murmuring
apologies in a distracted, disturbed voice. I did not relax until he had
vanished into the dining room. In front of me the painting of my sister with
her golden wings was bathed in morning light coming from the windows on the
landing. She had drawn closer to the frame. She was smiling.

The day before the dreaded anniversary, I woke to a
house subdued by quiet.For a moment I
bathed in the luxury of my surroundings but then I remembered where I was and I
stiffened, waiting, listening.In the
peace of the early morning there was the softest of sounds.It was muffled sorrow, unhurried and gentle.
I rose, wrapped myself securely in my gown before steeling myself for what was
awaiting me. On the landing, Bessie was between my room and the crumpled
figure of Philip, seated on the top step.Her hand was raised as if she had been approaching my door to summon me
but had been stayed by the huddled form of her master.Caught between pity and panic she had frozen
in indecision. I nodded to her, releasing her from her task. She gave me a
brief bob, but her face was grim.

‘This is not right, Miss,’ she whispered. 'This is too much to bear.'

‘That will be all, Bessie, continue with your
duties.’

She left, her expression grim and as she passed
Philip I saw her hand hover over him for a moment before she continued by
without the comforting touch she obviously felt she should bestow. I approached
with less pity in my heart, but felt unequal to the task of handling the
man. I had been foolish to underestimate
his madness.

‘Philip, come now, what is this for? It will do no
good. Shall I call for Dr Carstairs?’

He raised his face, wet with tears, but he smiled
at me. Smiled. Broad and uncontrolled.
Silently, he raised his hand and gestured to the wall. I shook my head
with my eyes closed. I crossed my arms impatiently. He laughed, a horrible
noise and his finger shuddered insistently. I already knew what he was pointing
to and so looked at the canvas. Then I moved forward to his side, my jaw
lowering. The golden frame held a room, dark and undefined without any light to
illuminate it. I tore my gaze from the painting to my brother-in-law’s crazed
expression.

‘She’s gone,’ he whispered.

The day was shattered into pieces that tore at us.
Philip paced from room to room, seeking my sister who had fled her frame. I summoned Albert Carstairs and gestured to
my brother-in-law as he moved between rooms with a restless excitement. Albert
took my hands in his and made a comforting sound.

‘What is the matter, my old friend,’ he called to
Philip, who paused, smiling.

‘She is here, my angel has escaped her frame and is
waiting for me!’

‘Come now, Philip, come and sit with Miss Davis and
I and have some tonic. You will wear yourself out.’

‘I cannot, Carstairs, you do not understand. She is here, my angel, my Sophia, she is
here!’

I made a noise of distaste, of pain, at hearing my
sister’s name, and Albert’s face grew grim.

‘Come now, Philip, this has to stop. You are causing Miss Davis distress.’

Albert caught Philip’s arm as he passed. For a
moment Philip looked confused as to why he had stopped then seemed to notice
Albert’s presence, Albert’s restraining hand.

‘She has gone! Flown the painting and is here in
the house. Where is she? I must find her
before…’ he trailed off and looked at me fearfully. Albert shushed him, and he too looked to me,
a curious expression creeping over his features. He looked guilty. They both looked guilty. Then, as if drawn by the same thread, both
heads turned to look at the stairs. There was a moment of silence between us,
then Philip’s head jerked up to look at the ceiling and grabbed my arm.

‘She's at the top of the stairs,’ he whispered, absolutely terrified.

‘It’s Bessie, it’s obviously Bessie,’ I laughed,
despite myself. It was too dramatic, too melodramatic, and had spilled into
farce. Both men looked at me and Albert too relaxed into a smile at the three
of us clutching each other like children fearing the dark.

‘Philip, my dear Philip, only you could have us
cowering from your maid as she dusts!’

He gave a chuckle which spread to Philip, looking
between Albert and I with moment of clarity. He closed his eyes and placed his
hands over his face, laughing softly with relief and embarrassment. He only
opened his eyes again when he realised that Albert and I had stopped laughing
and he followed our gaze. In the doorway to the dining room,
wiping her hands on her apron was Bessie.
She had been in the kitchen washing dishes. Looking puzzled but smiling at our good humour, she
approached us, and with terrible accuracy she stopped at the foot of the
stairs. Philip crumpled into an unconscious heap between us.

He shook so hard his teeth chattered. We wrapped Philip
in blankets and placed him by the fire, as Albert and I spoke in hushed tones.

‘I refuse to believe anything is amiss in this
house beyond my friend’s piece of mind.’

Albert’s face was shaded in darkness as we sat away
from Philip, in the corner of the room.

‘What could disturb him so?’ I asked insistently,
my hand lightly resting on the doctor’s. ‘This is something other than
grief. This is mania.’

Albert leaned right back, vanishing into the
darkness, his hands withdrawing from me.
When he spoke, it came from the shadows.

‘I am loathed to speak, I know nothing of
certainties.’

‘I am frightened of what will face me when
I wake tomorrow morning,’ I exclaimed, and he suddenly leaned forward, his face concerned for
his friend. His lips formed a quietening
noise but I persisted. ‘Please, he believes my sister is roaming the
house. Why would that fill him with such
terror? I would be filled with joy at
such an impossible prospect.’

I waited for my answer. The kind doctor steepled
his fingers in front of his lips, his brow furrowed with deep, dark lines. When
he spoke after several minutes, it was halting and careful.

‘I arrived at this house a year ago to find chaos
and horror. Your sister,’ he paused,
looking apologetic, ‘your poor sister was at the foot of the stairs. She
tripped, they said, she tripped in the night and toppled. It was tragic, but
nothing-’ Again he paused, as he nodded to me in acknowledgement, ‘-nothing
else. But, Philip…’

He trailed off, his eyes lingering on the shivering
bundle by the fire.

‘Go on,’ I urged softly and his fingers rested on
my hand lightly. He turned back to me.

‘He was hiding from me, hiding away in the attic
rooms. He was drunk as a lord and
talking such nonsense.’

I sat up straight.

‘Nonsense?’ I repeated warily. He nodded, his eyes dipping, but then he met
my stare again with determination.

‘He was rambling wildly, but amongst it he seemed
to feel responsible for Sophia’s death.’ He waited to see if I would respond
but I was holding myself still. I nodded stiffly for him to continue. ‘I
thought he meant he had driven her to it. I told him to stop talking before he said
something that could not be taken back.’ His fingers pressed mine in
reassurance. ‘I didn’t want to hear she had thrown herself down those damn stairs
on purpose.’

I made a noise of shock and disbelief.

‘No!’ I snapped, withdrawing my hand, but he caught
my fingers again in his.

‘No,’ he agreed, ‘she did no such thing. Lord knows
I heard he had given her reason enough…’

He tailed off and I waited for more but he was
silent again.

Together, we led Philip up the stairs to his
room. His head jerked at the slightest
sound and he called my sister’s name in terrified tones until I snapped at him
to stop. As we passed the canvas he
whimpered and urged Albert to look, but darkness shrouded it. Albert looked to me and seemed to redouble
his efforts, heaving the muttering artist along the hall to his room. After Philip had been placed between the
sheets and swaddled in blankets, the doctor turned to me.

‘I can’t leave you here,’ he whispered and took my
hands. I raised my chin and forced a
brave smile.

‘Doctor, there is nothing here to harm me. There
are no ghosts in this house.’

‘It is not spirits I fear, rather my friend, my
friend who is very unwell. I could arrange for him to take a rest cure. I could arrange some treatment.' Just for a moment, the doctor looked desperate and I feared he would embrace me for want of something heroic to do. He shook his head sadly, adding, 'I can’t believe it has gone so far.’

We closed the bedroom door and the doctor squinted
into the darkness towards the painting.
It was lost in shadow. He turned
his gaze to my face, searching it as if to find his strength. I drew myself up
in an act of bravery.

‘Tomorrow is a sad day for us, for both of us. I lost my sister, he his wife. That awful
anniversary will arrive whether we like it or not, then it will pass. The fear
of the day is the spectre in this unhappy house.’

‘And the painting?’

I thought of my sister, my poor broken sister, at
the foot of the stairs, with her husband looking down at her, his hand still
raised.

‘It is just a painting,’ I replied, simply.

Dr Carstairs found me the next morning, sitting by
the fire in the same chair Philip had sheltered in the night before. I too was shaking and a glass of brandy was
cradled in my hand. He made his way
through the men clearing the hallway of the debris of the night: a broken cup,
a torn curtain, the body of my brother-in-law.
A sheet covered him as I could not bear to see his face, his stretched
mouth, his wide eyes.

‘What happened? Dear God, Miss Davis, Olivia, what
happened?’

I could not respond, exhausted by the effort of
remaining sane in the face of madness. He sank to the floor beside me, his hand
on mine, and he gazed into the fire with me.

‘He fell? Was it an accident?’

I wanted to nod, but instead I frowned.

‘Was it an accident when my sister fell?’ I asked
hoarsely. I needed to hear it from someone sane, someone outside this house. He looked as if I had wounded
him but he relented with the truth.

‘A year ago, in that morning of ranting he admitted
– or implied at least – he had been present, his hands had been on her. They
argued and he…’

I remained in London until all had been settled. Our occupancy of the house, Bessie and mine,
was allowed by the landlord until all of Philip Archer’s effects could be sold
and his bills settled. Albert excused himself from my presence and did not return, his own guilt a barrier to our further communication. I counted his loss as part and parcel of Sophia's return and for a moment felt a twinge of regret, but that passed with the sales and the removals. When everything
had gone, all that remained was my meager bag I had arrived with almost a month
before, and a trunk of things that by necessity or desire would return home
with me.

Elizabeth Hemshaw, poor Bessie, faced me in her
coat and hat, her bag clutched in front of her.I offered the cheque to her and she took it, concealing it away,
fighting a look of guilt.When she
looked at me again, it was with sad finality.

'I have so much to thank you for.' I offered, inadequately.

She gave a stiff nod and I hoped that it was not guilt I saw in her eyes.

‘Goodbye Miss Davis.’

‘Thank you Bessie, Miss Hemshaw. I hope the money
will help you as you have helped me.’

She nodded stiffly, then turned and walked out of
my life. A carriage arrived and two
strong men lifted my trunk onto the back and strapped it in place. In it were my sister’s possessions, to be safely
cosseted in my little home back in Oxford, together with four paintings. The first was by my late brother in law of my
sister, a beautiful angel in a darkened room.

Friday, 23 December 2016

Almost there now, m'dears. Today and tomorrow and then it's Christmas. The three wise men have been knitted, and sewn up ready for my father's knitted nativity. I have one more pressie left to finish, but on the whole presents are done. I have cooking to do today, but before I do that I best get on with some angel business...

The Nativity (1858) Arthur Hughes

This has always been one of my favourite images of the nativity. It lacks the beauty of Burne-Jones' epic canvases, or the realistic glory of Marianne Stokes, but for plain straight-out weirdness, you can't beat the girl-only, smallest-stable-in-the-world wonder of Arthur Hughes masterpiece. No-one has any room, it is the epitome of too many people round for Christmas. There are wings and knees and halos all jostling for space. Mary is trying to wrap up her ever-so-small baby but there are people outside and it's impossible. For mid-nineteenth century, this is an amazing use of space on a canvas, and such a powerful image. The body proportions are weird (exactly how long is Mary's thigh?), Jesus is absolutely tiny but it has an intensity that others lack.

The Annunciation (1858)

The Nativity above wasn't Hughes only brush with an angel. Hughes did both the Annunciation and the Nativity, which is only right and proper, so we have the Angel of the Annunciation with some very impressive wings indeed. Unlike some of the more pushy angels who point at Mary's womb (which is a bit personal, if you ask me) or up at heaven, as if Mary is a half-wit (again, a bit rude), Hughes angel takes the standard primary school nativity pose of cross-your-heart arms. That's proper angel posing there. I love how the gap in the foliage gives Gabriel a mock-halo, and how the fluffiness around the bottom of the wings morphs into lilies. That typical Hughes palate of mauve and gold is all light in the Annunciation, then shadow in the Nativity, but is echoed beautiful between canvases.

He is Risen, The First Easter (1893-6)

Never one to leave a story alone, Hughes went as far as doing the Easter bit of the story too with yet another angel. This time, the angel at the tomb is a shaft of light, greeting the women who have come to have a vigil outside the tomb. There is also a nice little glowing dove in the tree behind them. It is a much later work and lacks the precision of the 1850s, which is a shame because The First Easter doesn't feel as individual as his earlier works.

Galahad Armed by an Angel (1857-8)

It's not just Biblical stories that inspired Hughes' angel art. The quest for the Grail becomes all angel-y and the lovely Galahad gets his own heavenly host to help him on his way. Here we have the bob-haired knight of the Round Table having his sword tied on by a very helpful angel. His shoes are almost as big as her wings...

Sir Galahad on the Quest for the Holy Grail (1870)

Not hampered by his medieval clown shoes, our intrepid knight goes off to find the sacred cup with a trio of glowing ladies. This is a beautifully composed work with the white angels reflecting the white horse, their heavenly light reflected in his armour. I also really like the curving, jutting stones of the bridge which hint at his perilous journey. The angels are everything they should be: otherworldly, flying and glorious.

Little One who straight has come Down the Heavenly Stair (1888)

Oh deary me. When I first saw this particular painting, I had to ask if the baby was coming or going because forgive me, but that is a weird looking infant who has apparently just walked down those stairs accompanied by five angels. There is also a bit of oddness going on between the baby and the mother's face. Believe me, it's no clearer in the flesh as I get the dubious pleasure of seeing this one quite often at the Russell-Cotes. Don't get me wrong - the angel ladies are lovely, the figures of the parents are solidly done (although I have misgivings about what the father is doing with that shovel), but the baby is just peculiar looking. I know, you are not meant to say that about babies. You are meant to say euphemistic things about Winston Churchill and how they all look cutely funny when they are born. When I had Lily I was in a hospital bed opposite a baby that made the nurses yelp in surprise when they saw it. The little girl had hair all over and sharp little teeth. And she howled for food in an unnerving manner. Bless her.

Sweep the Floor (1873)

As I conclude my exploration of angels in art I am pleased to bring you an angel who is being less than wonderful for a change. I'm sure this was all very inspirational back in the day but to me it looks like the angel is saying 'Sweep harder child, the Big Man wants to be able to eat his dinner off this floor.' The Victorians are typical of people who feel attacked in their own little world order, they repressed and made it sound like a good idea. You better sweep the floor or Jesus will find out and will be cross. You better not have impure thoughts, have ideas about bettering yourself or question authority because Jesus will see. Keep sweeping the floor, young 'un, and you'll get your place in heaven. It's all very well if an angel turns up to tell you that you're going to have a holy baby, or that a holy baby has been born or that you have to go and find the holy grail. How cheesed off would you feel if one turned up and told you to sweep the floor? I have a mother-in-law for that sort of thing. I don't need the Angel Gabriel getting involved.

Okay, well that's all the angel pictures you are getting for this Angelvent as I want tomorrow to be a bit different. I have an idea for a story for Christmas Eve but unlike last year, this is not a heartwarming tale of little robins and foxes...

It is 1865 and the week before Christmas. An artist stands before his last painting of his late wife shaking with fear and disbelief. He writes a note to his sister-in-law that contains only two words:

Thursday, 22 December 2016

Okay, so here's a thorny issue - what's the difference between a Christmas angel and a Christmas fairy? I would say without question that I have an angel on the top of my tree. Look, here she is...

It's not very clear, but she has golden wings but no halo...

She has served us well over around 15 years and I think she's lovely. We only have a little tree most years (it cost £5 from Matalan in 2000 and my mother-in-law hates it, so it's a winner for us) so she sits on top of it very nicely indeed, being light as a feather. However, I have noticed on social media that some people have been referring to the 'fairy' on the top of their tree, and I was wondering if there was a difference or is it just language...

The Christmas Tree Fairy (1930-40, published 1985) Cicely Mary Barker

I grew up with Cicely Mary Barker's Flower Fairies and this is one of her Fairies of Winter. The last stanza of her poem says

A dolly-fairy stands on top,
Till children sleep; then she
(A live one now!) from bough to bough
Goes gliding silently.

That is unequivocally a fairy, a little magical girl who pretends to be a doll until the children go to sleep. So, are fairies connected with dolls? I remember in the My Naughty Little Sister stories by Dorothy Edwards (written in the 1950s, set in the 1920s), the narrator has a fairy doll which she is proud of (and which is nearly destroyed by her satanic sibling). So, maybe Christmas fairies are linked to a specific era...

Christmas at Osborne House, 1896Look at the size of that angel!

Christmas trees aren't that ancient, as we know. Although early nineteenth century Northern American settlers brought evergreen boughs into their homes and churches at Christmas, the Christmas tree as we know it is linked with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.

Queen Victoria, Prince Albert and their many, many children (1840s)

Bert and Vickie had a tree, starting a fashion among the bourgeois to bring in a tree and decorate it. I wonder how many festive fires were started buy those little candles twinkling on tree branches? Anyway, as we can see from the illustrations of the time, the top of the tree was often empty (being so high up). Otherwise, the choices were a star (referencing the star over Bethlehem) or an Angel (again, for over the nativity). If you own a nativity set, you can't call it a holy party without an angel. I own three. I have no shame. I'd happily own more. This is one of mine...

This one is called 'Mary Jazz Hands and Gloria the Angel'. The angel in this set is very traditional, as you can see, with golden wings. The Playmobil one is slightly less traditional...

The wings are gold and in her hand is a wand. Ah-ha! A wand! Looking back at our Christmas Tree Fairy, she also has a wand, so that obviously is one that is shared. With the angel, the wand is shorthand for the Star of Bethlehem, rather than a magic wand that will make you a party dress at short notice.

1950s Fairy/Angel for Christmas Tree topping...

So both angels and fairies can have star-topped wands, so that isn't any help. How about what's on top of their heads? The 1950s angel above has a circlet on her head, but that's not the same as a halo. Often angels, like the one in the Playmobil set and Gloria, don't have halos, so that is no indicator, but a fairy does tend to come with a lovely fairy crown.

Another mid-century fairy/angel

So, a pointy crown is a good way of telling an angel from a fairy. Your average angel isn't going to be swanning round with a crown on, that's a tad ostentatious. I can't see Gabriel popping on a tiara before announcing a virgin birth. That's not his style at all...

Early twentieth century Christmas card

Hang on, I've seen a few Christmas images where the angel is wearing a circle of flowers. What's all that about?! Damn it! Okay, so sparkly crown equals fairy. If she is wearing nothing on her head, a halo or a circle of flowers, then she's probably an angel. Clear so far? Jolly good.

Just to confuse matters, here's a Christmas tree on top of an angel...

Anyway, back to our Christmas tree story. So Queen Vickie brought a tree into fashion but that doesn't mean that everyone had one. In fact, there was a charity that provided great big ones for communities so you'd have one in your neighbourhood but not necessarily in your home, especially if you were poor. It was definitely more towards the middle of the last century before people started doing it all for themselves at home, which would have coincided with the mass production of plastic-type decorations. It also is around the same time that toys became more accessible in cheaper materials, and 'fairy dolls' became fashionable. A conflation between a fairy, in her white sparkly dress, wings and wand, and the angel is easy to see. A fairy is more child friendly, less sombre, more modern in many ways.

Nothing says Christmas like not burning down the house

Of course, with the twentieth century came a change in Christmas tree lighting. Out went the candles and in came electric lights which were marginally less likely to burn down your house. I think it might be a British peculiarity that we call them 'fairy-lights', but that in turn has to be linked to the idea that fairies are in the tree, and possibly on top of it. And why not? The notion of fairies, sprites and little folk are far more ancient than our feathered friends, and possibly to some people are one and the same. It might be one of those things, that even before Christmas trees, we've been confusing and conflating one winged being with another...

What the flip is all that about?!

Although bizarre, this image brings up another possible identification method - wings. Mr Walker suggested the difference between an angel and a fairy is their wings. An angel will always have feather wings and a fairy tends towards gauzy, insect-like wings. Fairies were less connected with Christmas in Victorian times, although the Victorians loved a fairy as much as everyone else, so they do crop up...

Okay then, to sum up: If they are Victorian, then they are angel, unless they are a fairy. If they have feathery wings they are probably an angel, if they have insect-like wings, then they are probably a fairy. If they carry a wand, then they are either. If they have a crown on, then they are probably a fairy, and if they are wearing a flower ring or nothing, then probably an angel. All clear? Well, quite.

Okay, one hard and fast rule exists and that is if the figure has a halo then they are definitely an angel.

Wednesday, 21 December 2016

Today is the shortest day of the year and as I type it is still really dark. Mind you, the sun doesn't rise until something like half past twelve this afternoon, then sets about ten minutes later. I have to do the food shopping later and have so far written and lost two shopping lists, so I'm doing well. Let's crack on...

An Angel (1902) Henry Thomas Bosdet

This red-winged stunner was fluttering around the Art UK website (formerly the PCF catalogue on the BBC website) and caught my eye. Those wings are fairly impressive and so I wanted to know more about the artist...

2015 Jersey Christmas Stamps
I do love a nice stamp.

Henry Thomas Bosdet (1857-1934) was born in St Helier on Jersey, but his family moved to London when he was 10 years old. He attended the Royal Academy School in London for his artistic education. He became the Director of the Islington Art School and Curator of the Life School at the Royal Academy, but his painting career was relatively short. Instead, he focused his talents on stained glass.

Detail of Two Archangels,
St John's Church, Jersey

Whilst teaching, one of his students was William Heath Robinson, who described him thus - 'He wore a black velvet coat and an artistic tie. His head was that of a pale young Moses adorned with a long silky beard moustache and waving hair. The finishing touch to this artistic personality was the gold-rimmed monocle with continually dropped from his eye and was replaced as he took a broader or closer view of your drawings.' (My thanks to this page by Maya Hammarsal for the details).

Henry Thomas Bosdet, looking rather spiffy

He returned to Jersey in 1920 and many of his windows can be seen throughout the Island today. In many ways we have Henry VIII to thank for Henry Thomas Bosdet's fame as it was due to the Reformation that Jersey lost so much of its stained glass. I can't imagine what it must have been like to attend your familiar church which used to be plainly glazed, only to have that jewelled light suddenly pouring through those beautiful windows.

Interior of St Brelade's Church, Jersey

The Walker family have been discussing a holiday in Jersey and I think a tour of all the stained glass seems a very splendid idea. A note about the above church, St Brelade's, which I think some of you would appreciate - apparently, when it was being built the fairies didn't appreciate it being constructed in the middle of their land and so they moved it every night until the builders got the message and built it where the fairies dumped it. Seems sensible to me, you don't want to go messing with fairies.

Angel design for stained glass window

Stained glass windows are an inexhaustable resource for angels. You can buy those little sticky panels for windows to illuminate your home if you can't afford the real thing and they always make me smile. There is something about the medium that suits the luminous beauty of angels, their wings alight with sunlight on even the coldest day. I sometimes wonder if stained glass was put there to give you something to look at during a long sermon, and however you feel about religion, going into a church gives you the chance to admire some fascinating workmanship and artistry, especially of the Victorian period.

It's still dark so I'm off to write another shopping list. See you tomorrow...